


Silence

by mechanicalUniverses



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Guilt, Help, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Regret, Shooting, Sleep Paralysis, author is dying on the inside, someone tell me how to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 16:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12303045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicalUniverses/pseuds/mechanicalUniverses
Summary: It was impossible to miss the noises.





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

> hi all! i don’t really know what struck me to write this. maybe i don’t see enough content of Simmons being sad. i know my whole motto is “they should be happy! they’ve been through so much!” but i needed to expand on something else at SOME point.
> 
> enjoy! sorry if it isn’t... the Best Thing Ever but oh well. we all have our firsts. and seconds.

_Simmons is sure the sun hasn’t a moved an inch since he’d arrived._

_His sweeps his gaze over Blood Gulch canyon, drinking it all in with a grain of nostalgia. It all_ looked _the same as he last saw. The bases stood tall and sturdy, the random rocks and barren trees dotting the place were still there, and the canyon walls remained as imposing and red as ever. But as he walks, he realizes the blue sky is covered by turbulent, dark clouds. He frowns and looks around the canyon again. He can tell now that the_ _rocks weren’t weathered, there were no treadmarks in the ground, even the grass hasn’t really gotten any longer._

_That’s Simmons’ first hint that something is wrong._

_The second hint is that the entire place is deathly silent. Not as in the sound of static in an empty radio channel, not as in the rush of blood and freon running through his head, not as in the faint high-pitched whistling in his ears that always was playing if he concentrated. Silent as in the void of space, empty and vast and heavy._

_He takes a step towards Red Base. He can feel the gears in his mechanical leg whirring under his weight, the pressure of his foot in his boot, but it’s disconcerting that the crunch of the yellow grass is something he’s making up. He shivers and keeps walking._

_The valley seems to stretch on for a lot longer than he remembers._

_Simmons finally makes it to the arching entrance of Red base and stops short. Grif and Sarge are there, backs turned on him. He thinks they’re arguing by the way Grif gestures more and more frantically, and Sarge’s shotgun being raised and lowered, raised and lowered._

_In the background, Donut is simply watching, helmet turning slightly as the words fly like he’s watching the volleys of insults and jeers and complaints like he’s watching a tennis match._

_That’s Simmons’ third hint._

_Sarge turns and jerks his head at him, then to Grif. Simmons doesn’t know how he understands but he does, so he nods and draws his gun from his back. Grif turns to look at him. Deep in his golden eye (when had his helmet disappeared?) is a seed of pure desperation so pure and raw that it has him freezing up. For one moment, all he can do is stare. That moment holds a breath, a word, a plea._

_He points the gun at Grif’s chest._

_The sound returns in a high-pitched whine as the deafening shot echoes in the canyon like the final note a raging symphony. It leaves behind a quavering silence that hangs delicately in the air, so perfectly balanced that the slightest movement will send it all crashing down._

_Grif catches him with furious but somehow expectant disbelief. He holds Simmons down in that fiery gaze as blood drips from the Kevlar suit and splashes in fat drops onto the concrete, splattering his orange greaves in red. His eyes flutter shut and he crumples to the floor._

_The smoke from his shot does not fade._

_Simmons holsters his gun._   _Next, Sarge is going to tell him to get his ass into gear or to get the ammo Grif would forget, and he would go and do what he was told, and Donut would probably say something that would make them all uncomfortable, then they would all stand around and wait while Grif groaned and moaned and eventually got up, and then they would be on their merry way to do whatever bullshit Sarge had found._

 _Except, Grif_ isn’t _getting up. The too-big pool of too-dark blood on the floor is just spreading faster and faster, and he still isn’t getting up._

_But that was fine. He always did eventually._

_One minute passes. Simmons huffs. “Would you quit the dramatics?” Two. “Grif, Jesus Christ, let’s go.” Three._

_The smoke turns from faint wisps to stormy gray tongues that snake their away around the room, blocking out the light. Fear slowly wraps his metal heart in its frigid fingers. He can feel it pounding like a bird trying to escape a shrinking cage. “Grif,” he says shakily, “get up. Grif, we, we have to go. Get up.”_

_Nothing. No snark, no mean or triumphant laugh, no middle finger flung up, nothing. He rushes forward, instantly tripping, but he scrambles upright and reaches for Grif’s hand. Wrong, this was all_ wrong _, Grif was supposed to be yelling at him, or talking, or complaining, doing something, not being so unresponsive and cold and—_

_“Grif, this, this isn’t funny!”_

_—silent._

_“No, no, no—” The smoke is in his lungs, squeezing them harder and harder and harder until he’s dizzy and shaking. “God please, no, Grif,_ Dexter _, get up!” The horror and guilt crests and stabs into him like needles, clawing through every muscle and bone, every atom and quark, turning his body numb with shock and disbelief. “I didn’t mean to, fuck, fuck, please—” Simmons gags when he realizes that Grif’s legs are fading away, dissipating into black ash that flutters from his fingertips tauntingly. He tries to grab wildly at Grif’s hand as a chunk of his stomach cracks and turns to cinders. It phases right through and only makes it spread faster and faster until he’s gone and Simmons is only grasping at empty air._

_He’s gone._

_Something hits the ground with a sickeningly cheery tinkle. More sounds like it follow it for a few seconds before stopping. Simmons squeezes his eyes shut, swallows, opens them and looks down. Bullets, over a dozen of them, caught and stopped in Grif’s flesh. He doesn’t need to wonder why there were so many. He already knows._

_Slowly at first, then faster and faster, the smoke turns the room to a tumbling tempest of sound and howling wind. The fog begins to swirl, and within it, he watches the very first time he had lifted his gun with shaking hands, pointed it at Grif, and fired, then the first time his hands hadn’t shaken when he fired, to the first time he got any sort of sick pleasure when he fired, the first time he had smiled when he fired._ _That’s what the leader wanted, right? That was going to help him in the end, right?_

_It was what was right, right?_

_“No. No, no, nonono, I can fix this—” He can’t. He can’t undo this, he can’t sweep it under the rug, he can’t, he_ can’t _. “J_ _ust, just—Fuck!_ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t—know—”_

_A hand closes around his shoulder. Something inside of him breaks. He knows that hand; he knows exactly how much space that wide palm takes, how fast the warmth of it would soak into his skin, how many times it had touched his back, burning hot. It was cold now._

_He had done that. Grif was dead, and it was his fault, it was all his fault—_

* * *

 

It was impossible to miss the noises.

The helpless whimpers as people were trapped in whatever hell their brain was unleashing on them. The whispered pleads of mercy, the pathetic keening sounds. And the screaming. God, the _screaming_. That part was the worst of it all. The ones that tore at peoples throats and had them coughing and crying when they finally woke up. The ones that weren’t always fear, but fury, and then a soul-crushing howl of pain. The heart-wrenching echoes that would have him startling awake for a split second before relaxing, closing his eyes, thinking, “Here we go again,” and rolling back over.

(Grif hates that it’s normal. He hates it so fucking much.)

So when he hears it when he passes by Simmons’ room during one of his nighttime wanderings, he turns on his heel and goes back to his room and throws a blanket over his shoulders. Then he changes his mind and grabs his pillow, too. Finally, he hurries back to Simmons’ room and doesn’t hesitate as he punches in his passcode. The lock beeps and the door quietly slides open, revealing a dark, whimpering lump on the bed. Grif feels his stomach lurch. The sheets are tangled around his legs, and Grif can see he is glistening with sweat just by the faint backlight from the hallway.

“Oh man,” Grif sighs. He quietly pads in. The door automatically closes behind him. It turns the room almost pitch black, so he feels his way to the lamp and flicks it on. Unfortunately, it’s incredibly bright and blinds him momentarily. Grif blinks spots out of his eyes as he sets the lamp down on the floor. After a moment of thought, he takes his pillowcase off and tosses it over the shade. Fire hazard, fire schmazard.

And then he just stands there, wincing as Simmons starts thrashing like a fish out of water. His hand goes out, clawing at empty air before dropping. Grif moves to the bed before Simmons can throw himself off of it and sits down on the edge. He gently grabs Simmons’ shoulder. “Hey,” he says lowly, shaking him lightly. “Dude, I’m gonna need you to wake up if—”

And he does. _He wakes up._  Almost immediately, actually. Grif frowns. That definitely shouldn’t have worked. There had to be something is wrong.

He squints. Simmons is awake, but he isn’t moving. He’s not even trying to sit up. He’s just sitting there and heaving in breath after breath after breath. His organic eye was rolling about wildly in his head, while his cybernetic one starts blinking red on and off so fast that Grif has to glance somewhere else before he gets sick. Simmons’ jaw is clenched so tight it makes Grif’s teeth hurt just looking at him, and he keeps tossing his head so violently that Grif is almost concerned he’s going to break his neck.

“I...” Simmons starts, and breaks off as he finally moves. Grif’s shoulders drop in relief even as Simmons starts retching over the edge of the bed, shaking and coughing.

“I’m not cleaning that up,” Grif says. Simmons freezes up. Then he slowly looks up at him, eyes blown wide. Green meets gold and for just a few seconds, all he does is stare. Grif raises an eyebrow. “What?”

Simmons jumps like Grif had just electrocuted him. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally manages, “You’re...” He trails off. 

“I’m?” Grif prompts.

“I thought—I thought I, I—” His gaze snaps to Grif’s stomach for some reason. Then he lunges forward, patting frantically at his chest. The words die in his throat as Simmons’ hands still right in the middle of his chest, muttering under his breath so fast, Grif can only snatch a few words out of dozens.

“Uh,” Grif says. “Dude. I dunno what the fuck you’re looking for, but I’m fine. Look.” He lifts up his shirt, revealing dozens of scars ranging from bullets to explosions to the weird y-shaped slash across his chest from his surgery. “See? Fine.”

Simmons stops moving like a switch had been flicked. There’s another pause during which Simmons jerks his head up and gapes at him. Then he looks back down and gingerly reaches out to touch the center of his chest. The way he does it makes Grif’s heart ache. Just what had he been dreaming about that left him so shaken, so uncertain of everything?

And then Simmons’ expression crumples and new tears start silently dripping down his face and landing on the covers with a steady, _pap, pap, pap_. His hands slowly go up to cup his jaw softly. Grif can feel Simmons’ hands trembling.

“Grif,” he whispers. “Grif, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, _so fucking sorry._ ”

Grif opens his mouth to ask what the hell he means, but he’s interrupted  _again_ as Simmons wraps his arms tightly around his middle. Grif feels his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as Simmons pulls him close, hands gripping the back of his shirt as if he was going to vanish into thin air. But he is still quiet as Simmons buries his face into his shirt, muttering incoherency and even more apologies.

“Breathe,” Grif murmurs. His arms uncertainly come down around Simmons. Then he becomes a little more confident and readjusts them so one of his hands can card into Simmons’ messy, sweaty hair, and the other rests in the middle of his back.  “I’ve got you.”

An eternity passes. Or maybe it’s an hour, or a few minutes, he doesn’t really care. He just pays attention to how Simmons slowly, so fucking _slowly_ , starts to bring himself back. His breathing goes from shallow gasps to shaky, but full breaths, the shaking of his body turns to the occasional shiver, the tight grip he has on his shirt loosens microscopically.

Grif carefully nudges Simmons into moving over so he can lay down on the bed without falling off. He doesn’t bother to turn the lamp off. After a few seconds, Simmons starts to sink down beside him. The mattress is way too small for two people, so Simmons is practically draped over him, but that was fine.

It was fine.

“You look like shit.” Grif doesn’t know where that whole myth of some people looking nice when they cried started, but it sure was fake as hell. Simmons’ cheeks were a splotchy red and shiny with a mix of sweat and tears, his nose was dripping snot all over his shirt (which would be grosser if he didn’t consider his own blood to just be another stain to wash out), his regular eye was bloodshot, and the bags under his eyes were sunken and dark.

Despite all of that, Simmons still chuckles weakly. It’s watery, obviously forced, but it’s something. He’ll take it. “Thanks,” he rasps.

“No problem.”

They fall silent. An hour passes with Grif thumbing slow circles into Simmons’ shoulders. Every time he starts mumbling, Grif shushes him and pulls him closer into his chest, and if he presses his lips to Simmons’ scalp every once in a while when he really starts to lose himself in words, well.

That was for them to know.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! if you want to come chat with me, you can find me [on tumblr](https://scintillating-galaxias.tumblr.com/) :)


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